


Summer Finds Me There

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew falls in love in the summertime, with a visiting boy next-door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Finds Me There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightinthehall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightinthehall/gifts).



> This was a birthday gift for ma petite, Sous, uploaded here and retouched a little from tumblr.

**_ i.  
_ ** Matthew falls in love over a can of pepsi. Okay, no, that’s dumb, but there _is_ pepsi involved – the cool click and fizz of a new-opened can, fingers cold with condensation pressing fleetingly into skin that feels as though it has the sun burning behind it, sweat and damp and a blinding smile fed with a supernova. Summer tells complicated stories in lazy-small parts, grass stains on t-shirts and forgotten ice-cubes melting on the countertop.

A hot blond guy mowing Matthew’s neighbour’s back lawn. 

Matthew sees him (The Guy, future come a'callin') as he’s pushing open his own kitchen window one (too) hot afternoon; air cons aren’t an English standard, and he needs the breeze to come inside the stuffy room. The plan had been to open the back door as well, make a through-draught that might beckon Matthew's dog Kumajimpo down from where he's no doubt leaving fur all over the cool clean sheets of Matthew's bed – but the window is quite nice; the window is distracting, and the window offers a wonderful view of the stranger in the back garden of next-door. Mr. Kirkland lives there – God knows what Mr. Kirkland _does_ (either there, in the house, or just for a living; but Matthew isn't inclined to ask after either) _,_ but Mr. Kirkland _doesn’t_ let just anyone into his beautiful back garden. 

…It’s hardly like a random thug to come in and mow someone’s lawn – and even if there _is_ a renegade member of the local neighbourhood watch going around mowing people’s lawns, it’s a bit suspicious that they seem to know to steer clear of Mr. Kirkland’s lovely flowerbeds, roses and violas, love-in-idleness, away from the secluded area at the bottom of the garden that Mr. Kirkland as good as leaves alone to grow wild. They must be smart (self-preservative) – and a bit thick, to be taking on the lawn at the hottest part of the day. Contrasts. Matthew feels sweaty just _looking_ at the stranger shoving Mr. Kirkland’s rather beaten-up lawnmower up and down the length of the garden, sweat clinging to the stranger’s back - obvious sweat too, due to the damp marks it leaves on the guy’s t-shirt, by the sheen of the skin of the guy’s bare arms. And then said guy takes _off_ his shirt, wiping down his face and tossing the clothing aside.

Matthew is strongly disinclined to leave the window.

Up and down, up and down, the guy mows the lawn steadily up and down. He’s no Adonis but he’s pretty handsomely above average, filling out beaten jeans rather nicely, with some kind of silver chain glittering bright around his neck. Sunshine gold and tan, the sort of face that in another life would be fitted for a sweet soldier-boy gone to war, the boy next-door remembered in sepia photographs and faded ink. It’s a charming ideal (rather a sad one) and Matthew dreams awhile –

“Alfred, are you composing your last will and testament out here? I wanted the lawn finished sometime _before_ next week – what the hell’s taking you so long?”

Dreaming ends.

‘Alfred’ shuts off the lawnmower at the sudden call, noise whirring down into nothing, turning about as Mr. Kirkland drifts into view from next-door’s back-door, pale in a loose button-up shirt and shorts. 

“Dude,” it’s entirely unfair that Mr. Kirkland can come outside into the heat looking so cool, Matthew thinks – and ‘Alfred’ seems to be swiftly judging the other man too, wearing the start of a pout on his face, “it’s not my fault your mower sucks and won’t go any faster than _backwards_. Where did you find this fossil – the Bronze Age?”

“It’s a perfectly serviceable machine -”

“I’ve used more serviceable _bricks._ ”

“Yes, well, perhaps if you hadn’t decided to wreck my _car_ we could’ve driven to B&Q and gotten a new one -”

“I didn’t _wreck_ the damn car! I just…” Alfred’s righteous indignation trails off a little, the man awkwardly rubbing some of the sweat from the back of his neck with one hand, “dented it a little.”

“‘A _little._ ’”

“You can still drive it!”

“With a broken headlight?” Alfred mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _the wheels still go round and round,’_ and Mr. Kirkland _hmphs._ Puts his hands on his hips in the way Matthew's cousin, Francis, had whistled at when he'd come over to visit that one time, leering over the fence at Mr. Kirkland's reddening face until Matthew had grabbed Francis by the collar and hauled the troublesome man inside. (Matthew had apologised to his neighbour for _weeks_ after that, and Francis had yet to be invited back around again.)  __“Just hurry up and mow the sodding lawn. You’ve still got to finish fixing the light in the bathroom before it gets dark.”

“Slave-driver.”

“Ingrate.” 

“Tyrant.”

“Matthew?”

“Dic-” Alfred halts, suddenly flummoxed, “wait, that’s a new one. _Matthew?_ ”

Mr. Kirkland ignores him, focused over the fence dividing the gardens, and Matthew – spotted half-hanging out of the window by his next-door neighbour Matthew - flushes red. There’s no way he can possibly subtly duck out of sight, already seen. So, nervously, he smiles.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkland.”

His neighbour looks contrite. “Did we disturb you?”

“Uh,” Matthew says rather intelligently, straightening up a little and gesturing vaguely at his own back-garden, “I was just uh…” There's a curious gleam in Alfred’s eyes as the man tilts his head, light off the glasses he’s wearing low on his nose, that _isn’t helping –_ so Matthew scrabbles, and finds a refuge in banality. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

“It’s a tad hot,” is the return, and Mr. Kirkland elbows his companion with one sharp elbow when Alfred snorts, “but it makes up for the lot of rain we’ve been having recently. Why don’t you come outside?”

“I -” _am going to die,_ “I couldn’t impose -”

“Nonsense,” says Mr. Kirkland, and nods determinedly. “Hop over the fence if you’d like; I’ll fetch us something cold to drink. He,” Mr. Kirkland jerks a thumb at Alfred (who is busy rubbing his ribs), “might be a useless clutz, but everyone deserves a break sometime. Come join us.”

There’s very little Matthew can say to that but a meek ‘ _okay,’_ slipping out of his back-door (and making sure to carefully close it behind him to stop Kumajiji escaping) and clambering over the fence that divides his garden from Mr. Kirkland’s, as Mr. Kirkland goes back into his own house. Alfred _had_ moved to help Matthew across – but Matthew climbs over too quickly for assistance, a few easy swings of his legs.

Alfred whistles at the display, hands on his hips. (Matthew tries not to look like he’s blatantly eying the other’s chest.) “You do that a lot, huh?”

“My dog sometimes escapes and tries to bury his toys over here.” Matthew shifts his weight from foot to foot – Alfred is about the same height as him, and his slow-growing grin is almost infectious, more dazzling up close. “Mr. Kirkland’s not always in, but he’s given me permission to hop across the fence anytime Kumanuu gets out and tries to have a go at his flowerbeds. I wouldn’t want to destroy Mr. Kirkland’s lovely flowers -”

“He can always grow new ones!” Alfred dismissed Matthew’s concern with a laugh, scratches sweat-dark hair until it sticks up in weird curls, a bob above his forehead. “I swear he likes doing that best – I mangled his whole vegetable patch with my horse one time back when he lived out in the country. Didn’t _mean_ to, but he yelled at me for a good while and then spent the rest of the week somewhere between being a sour grumpy-ass complaining about cabbages, and total euphoria at getting to reorder the patch layout.” Alfred’s smile turned a little softer. “Artie looks like a prissypants most of them time I know, but he actually likes getting stuck in every now and then, getting his hands dirty.”

“But then,” the man of their discussion breaks in once more, calls over, coming back out of his house with two cans of pop in-hand and a third one tucked into the crook of one elbow, “why have a dog and bark yourself? _Especially,”_ Mr. Kirkland adds, and shoots a rather pointed look at Alfred as he comes closer, “one so thoroughly in the doghouse.”

Alfred makes a face back at him. “You really need to stop it with the mutt metaphors.”

“Aw, poor dear. Am I yanking too much at the doggy’s chain?” Alfred growls, and earns himself a smirk. “Honestly, you deserve it, but I’ll stop as a reward for you actually knowing what a metaphor _is._ ” Mr. Kirkland glances back at Matthew, before passing him one of the cans he’s holding. It’s cold, ice-cold, clearly straight out of the fridge, a shivering shock to grasp. “I hope pepsi’s alright. Has this great lug introduced himself to you yet?”

“Um.” No.

Mr. Kirkland just sighs, and gestures to Alfred, who _blatantly_ puffs himself up, a preening little sunshine bundle of fluff. “Matthew, this idiot over here is my little cousin, one Alfred F. Jones. He recently wrecked my car,” ( _“I did not_ wreck _the dumb car!”_ ) “and, as such, is currently doing a list of favours for me to make up for it. Alfred,” Mr. Kirkland gestures at Matthew, and almost hits Matthew in the face with a can of pepsi. Matthew quickly relieves him of the burden, and passes it over to Alfred - cold metal against the hot skin of Alfred’s palm, their fingertips press. “This is Matthew Williams, my neighbour.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Matthew says, and flicks his gaze up directly at Alfred’s face, meeting crawling electric blue. It’s a trick of the sun’s glare, to make blue eyes so brilliantly bright, but it’s a suckerpunch to the gut all the same.

_Oh._   


Alfred grins, and waits a while before pulling his hand away, opening the pepsi with a _click_ and a fizz, dizzy as Matthew _feels_. “Hey.”

  


[Matthew describes it as a bumblebee afternoon forever after that – drifting and dazy, with the _hum_ of the lawnmower and the _hm_ of Alfred’s smile, curling fuzziness unfurling in Matthew’s belly at the memory, tucked away in soft colours, striped sun and shade. 

Once upon a time, happily ever -]

 

  


**_ ii.  
_ ** After that, Matthew keeps an eye out for Alfred next door. Alfred F. Jones, who dismantles things and puts them back together. ‘ _Better than before_ ,’ he insists, but Mr. Kirkland (Arthur, he insists now, since Matthew stumbles through his house more often than not now, _Arthur_ ) vocally doesn’t _care_ about ‘better,’ irritably demanding Alfred repair the CPU he’s left strewn in bits around his study, to have a go at fixing the broken radio in the kitchen, while he’s at it. Arthur’s not the best with mechanics – woodwork, on the other hand, woodwork he can do, fine carvings crafted from magician’s hands, but anytime anything mechanical fails in Arthur’s house it’s Alfred Arthur seems to call to come over and have a go at fixing it. Matthew listens for the yelling, one of them sulking in the garden or off-key humming floating out of one of Arthur’s windows: these are the things that let him know Alfred’s around. 

Alfred lights up like – like some kind of _star_ , laughing and iridescent and irreprehensible. He talks and talks – ‘ _his greatest problem,’_ Arthur says, drifting on the edges of Alfred’s chatter and going about his own business, ‘ _is shutting up’ –_ about space and flight and bits and pieces. About science, the way the world is put together and turns, about grumpy older cousins who complain far too much about bumps and scratches and can’t cook to save their _life,_ about sunshine and dust and horses and home.

“You’re American?” Matthew asks, cross-legged on Arthur’s patio as Alfred has a go at fixing the back of one of Arthur’s broken kitchen chairs, listening to Alfred rattle off stories about the country of his birth, towering cities and endless dusty roads. The overhead sun beats down on both their heads, and when Alfred grins at him, Matthew feels warm. This is how summer should work.

“Thought my accent would’a given it away, honestly.” Alfred sets down the mallet he’d been idly weighing in his grip, shifting the chair a little to pull it into a better light. “Artie says I sound like a stereotypical Yank.”

“It’s nice,” Matthew says, a tumble of a rush that he never actually meant to say _aloud,_ and colours when Alfred looks at him incredulously. “I mean, I – your accent -”

“I like yours too,” Alfred says, _drawls,_ something wicked in the new curve of his smile. “ _Darlin’._ ”

Matthew smacks him on the head. 

 

[“You won’t knock any sense into him that way,” Arthur informs Matthew later, poking at the newly-fixed chair. “You should try kicking him next time; he probably does most of his thinking down south, anyway.”]

 

 

**_iii.  
_** A lifetime of having an elaborately, terribly Parisian _French_ man for a relative has taught Matthew strange things to expect of love. That there should be romantic declarations, a dramatic confession, flowers on the doorstep, walks in the park and picnics beneath the trees.

Alfred asks Matthew out for coffee as an apology for dropping a paint can on his foot one time, and it somehow turns into a date. They do nothing but hold hands on that date, accidentally knocking knees and nudging elbows until Alfred had taken the hint fate had seemed determined to wallop them both with and, fumbling, reach out and shyly snag the edge of Matthew's sleeve with one finger and thumb, slipping down to steal Matthew's hand (and heart) with his whole palm when Matthew didn't protest - didn't protest and _smiled_ at him, encouragement to go on. That first fiercely determined blush spread high on Alfred's cheeks - these are things Matthew treasures always, Alfred's hand in his own on that first not-a-date, on their next date that- _is_ -actually-a-date where they do nothing _but_ hold hands until they get back to Matthew's home, curled-up kissing together on the sofa until Kumakichi leaps up and headbutts Alfred hard enough in the stomach to leave Alfred doubled-over. Matthew apologises for his pet and Alfred pecks him goodbye, disappearing into the summer evening, golden boy going home.

Alfred…most of the time Matthew sees Alfred, next-door, Alfred has some sort of grime on his hands, on his cheek and nose. Dirt and mud and grease and paint, sawdust and oil.

“Are you renovating Arthur’s entire house?” Matthew asks him, carefully leaving a kiss on the _only_ part of Alfred’s face that seemed to be without a smudge that day – the bridge of Alfred’s nose. 

Alfred just shrugs. “He needs stuff fixing, I might as well come fix it. ‘Sides,” he grins, and Alfred’s grins are good, very good, even when they mean he’s thinking about the best kind of _bad,_ “I like being in the neighbourhood.”

For that, Matthew kisses him again, lets Alfred pull him closer by the loops of his jeans – his clothes have grass stains on them anyway; a bit more dirt won’t hurt. Alfred is intoxicating when close, closer, taking Matthew apart and putting him back together with time and smiles and awkward flirting, flopping together in the grass and racing out front to get them ice-cream when the ice-cream van jingles merrily down the road. Little sunspot moments, theirs in their sweet entirety, even on the days when the summer sky grows darker, rumbling in with storms and rain. There are whole galaxies there, vast and small and swirling around a newfound wonder, Alfred’s warm smile curving comfortably against Matthew’s mouth.

 

[Matthew falls in love, with Alfred, again and again and again. It’s very dumb. It’s very good.]


End file.
